


Dinner, 8 O'Clock

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Concatenation Timestamps [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), SPECTRE (2015)
Genre: Affection, Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, awkward family dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6016825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I'm calculating," Q says. James lifts a brow. "There is a thirty-three point three percent chance that my mother says something embarrassing in the first five minutes of being seated. The probability skyrockets if the window of time is expanded thrice. My father, by compare, starts with negligible odds, which will increase exponentially with every sip of an alcoholic drink."</i>
</p><p>Continues on immediately from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5802850">Checkpoint</a>, with major spoilers for the very end of that series, so we would advise you read that one first!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner, 8 O'Clock

**Author's Note:**

> We promised timestamps... prepare.

Q stands damn near motionless, hands folded in front of him, eyes ahead but unfocused. Around them, the restaurant bustles quietly, too expensive to be too noisy, too dark for the movements of those settling in for their reservations to be of any notice.

In a slim-cut three-piece suit of charcoal tweed, his tie stands out with a pop of lime-green plaid striped with sky blue, the same color as the pocket square folded into perfect points. His hair is combed, much as it can be, already working free in curls that hang against his brow. A single shadow furrows it.

"Alright, Q?" James asks, leaning near enough that he need only murmur the name that no one else need hear.

For a moment, his erstwhile quartermaster doesn't respond, but for a thinning of his lips. Finally he draws a breath deeply, and sighs it out all at once.

"I'm calculating," he says. James lifts a brow. "There is a thirty-three point three percent chance that my mother says something embarrassing in the first five minutes of being seated. The probability skyrockets if the window of time is expanded thrice. My father, by compare, starts with negligible odds, which will increase exponentially with every sip of an alcoholic drink."

James huffs a soft laugh and draws a hand down Q’s back until he straightens and then relaxes against it. Somewhat.

“There is very little they could say to convince me to no longer be married to you,” he points out. “Any embarrassing stories of your childhood would merely be proof as to why you’re the perfect man for me.” Q makes a sound, plaintive and little, and James kisses his cheek. “Darling, you have to breathe. Parents are parents. They will be curious, perhaps, and most likely far more interested in why I have twenty years over you than in telling me of your childhood endeavors.”

“That’s even worse,” Q sighs, and James kisses his cheek again.

Q tilts his head a little into the kiss, with another strangled sound. He turns to regard James beside him, devilishly handsome, as always. A woolen suit the color of ash, fitted well - not nearly as modern and tight a cut as Q's, but perfectly tailored all the same. Shades of grey in shirt and tie that bring out the blue depths of his eyes and the gold in his hair.

"You look wonderful," Q tells him, but as James' smile spreads, Q's brow arches. "Don't let it go to your head. It's big enough already."

"Both of them, from what I've been told."

Q draws a sharp breath, eyes wide, but his chastisement smothers and dies in his throat as the door to the restaurant opens. They've gone over their shared story. Reviewed, rehearsed, practiced again and again until Q drove Bond half-mad with it and caught the sharp end of a spanking, to both their delight.

He tries not to think of that now. God, not now. Forcing himself into a jerky step forward to greet his parents, he greets them both - his mother with a kiss on the cheek, his father with a firm handshake. 

James waits his turn, watching with interest. Q shares the same figure as his father, both on the shorter side, both very slight. His father wears glasses, a camel-colored jumper beneath his jacket - balding, though, from the front. Q's mother is just as fine-boned but clearly the source of Q's looks - a lovely woman, dark-haired and somber-featured, but for the hint of a smile playing in the corners of blue eyes.

"Shall we take our table, then?" Q says, a little too loud, a little too enthusiastic as his nerves begin to hum a higher pitch.

"Aren't you going to introduce us, Quinlan?" His mother reminds him, and Q - Quinlan - turns a plaintive gaze back to James.

"Yes," he says. That's all. Yes.

James eyes narrow in a gentle smile and he allows it to reach his lips as he lifts his face to the two people before him.

“James Bond,” he offers. “Believe me, I am as excited to meet you as your son is to have us meet.”

Quinn’s mother raises an eyebrow and smiles back, looking fondly at her son who runs his palms up and down his jacket to smooth out invisible wrinkles.

“You got him into a suit,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve seen him in a suit since he graduated.”

"Well," Quinlan laughs, a note too high, "when you've got to wear one every day, doesn't lend one's self to dressing up for Sunday dinner, does it?"

"He's very fond of the jumpers you send," James says. He turns to offer his hand to Q's father, who gives him a firm shake. "Mr. Holt."

"Edward's fine," he says. "And Amelia, my wife."

James accepts her hand and brings it to his lips. He doesn't touch but for a brush, enough that she straightens a little more, chin tilted up in evident pleasure. The head of house takes them to their table, the Holts first, and the newly-minted Bonds behind. Q grasps James' elbow. He whispers, urgent.

"James, I need to -"

"Breathe," James interjects gently. "Breathe and have a nice dinner. That's all you need to do, darling."

"No," Quinlan says, "I haven't -"

"Haven't what, dear?" His mother asks, as she settles into her seat first, Edward and James next, and Quinlan last, pressing his palms to his trousers.

"Even asked how you've both been, since Christmas," he manages, smiling despite his pallor. "Forgetting my manners already."

“How can we be, dear, we’re retired,” Edward replies, taking the heavy napkin to unfold and set to his lap. “Our days are dull and slow compared to your busy schedule. Your mother and I have been well. As have the cats.”

“You have cats?” James asks, feeling Q nearly vibrate next to him before he reaches out to set his hand atop the one Q has curled over the chair in his panic.

“Three,” Amelia says. “Terribly old, now, they were Quinlan’s present for several consecutive birthdays. He’s very fond of cats.”

“We have two, now,” James says, smiling and squeezing Q’s hand when he tries to pull it away. “He’s working on turning me into a cat person, though I fight against it constantly.”

The affection is observed and noted, as much for the curiosity of seeing such a public display of affection as anything else. Quinlan tugs lightly again but James holds comfortably. The mere idea of touching - let alone their son, let alone their son with another man who’s almost twice his age - seems to strike both as peculiar.

"Desmond and Peter are lovely lads," Edward finally says, squinting a little at James in a way that's all too familiar to him. "Surely they've not been giving you any trouble."

"Surely not," Quinlan echoes, nearly smiling.

"Perhaps he simply doesn't care for cats. There are those who don't," says Amelia, and to her, James inclines his head in amused gratitude. "But it sounds as if you've become accustomed to their company enough if there's going to be a third."

"Thirty-three point three percent," whispers Quinlan beneath his breath, held upright and kept from slipping beneath the table only by the rigidity of his spine.

“Amelia, you are giving away my best ideas for anniversary gifts,” James tells her with a smile, and Quinn squeezes his hand so hard he has to fight not to wince.

“Of when we met,” he clarifies, turning to James with a desperate look. “Anniversary of when we met. He’s a bit of a romantic.”

James just blinks, brow raising incrementally. “It’s what you love about me,” is all he says. Their waiter approaches them and offers Edward the wine list, that he and Amelia peruse with great interest. James tilts his head at his husband for an explanation.

His expression says enough, their shared language far beyond need for furtive whispers. James doesn't let him off that easy, though, not until with a squirm and a gentle rolling of his eyes, Quinlan mouths to him: I haven't told them.

"Are you going to have anything to drink?" Amelia asks, and Quinlan answers so quickly he nearly chokes on it, rebounding to a smile.

"Yes, please, whatever you're having."

"James?"

"No," he says, watching Quinlan a moment more before turning away with a smile of his own. "No, thank you. Seems I'm in the driver's seat tonight."

The orders are placed, for appetizers too, because why shouldn't they, on a nice night out like this? Why shouldn't they when Q's leg keeps jiggling and he can't seem to make it stop? Why shouldn't they when Q's stomach is all but inverted, inching upwards to wedge itself into his throat, as it did when he tried twice to tell his parents about the elopement and failed?

"So, James," Edward says. "Outside of our son’s evident fondness for your friendship, we know very little about you. Where did you go to school?"

"Miniscule," whispers Quinlan, helpless. "Miniscule probability without the drinks."

“Primarily in Scotland,” James replies easily, always the one to thrive under pressure. He ignores Quinn’s panic, ignores it so that in time Quinn will ignore it as well, and allow himself to breathe. “I was lucky enough to travel a lot when I was younger, though at the time I hardly appreciated being uprooted and transferred to a different school.”

“That would have been difficult,” Amelia agrees, setting her own napkin to her lap now. “Quinlan was such a quiet boy at school, I can’t imagine how hard it would have been for him to transfer on such short notice.”

“Did your parents move for work?” Edward adds, and beside James Quinn makes a very quiet, very helpless noise.

“No,” James answers, just as easily as if the question had been regarding the weather. “No, unfortunately I lost them to a skiing accident when I was eleven. I was brought up by my aunt.”

“Oh, dear, I am so sorry.” Amelia’s eyes widen and James merely inclines his head. Beneath the table he manages to turn Q’s hand over and slip their fingers together. "My father passed when I was very young," she says. "It's good you had family to help keep you on your feet."

"And on all sorts of new ground to explore in many places," James agrees. "All things considered, I was very lucky."

She offers him a small smile, glancing to Quinn beside him, whose fingers tighten against James' hand. "Dear," she says. "You're quite pale. Are you well?"

"Very well," he says. "Very, very well."

"Quinlan tells us you met at work," Edward asks. Surprisingly, Q's grip loosens. They've reviewed this for weeks. Corporate financial services. Corporate financial services. Corporate financial - "Little old to still be pushing papers, aren't you?" He laughs, with the barest trace of a snort at the end.

Quinn is not well. Very, very unwell.

“Sometimes a job claims you,” James admits, ducking his head, dutifully chastened for holding a position he has never held that is beneath him in a sphere he has never worked. “Time flies past and you realize you’ve been in corporate finance for twenty years.” James lifts his free hand to his face, rubbing against his lip and drops it again. “I’ll admit I’ve grown comfortable. A job I know well, a company I enjoy working for, a man I love near enough to see every day.”

Quinn shivers, but it’s not unpleasant. Some color returns to his face at least. Amelia looks at him fondly, bottom lip pushing up against her top as she considers him with a mother’s eye, certain something is wrong yet unwilling to push it.

Their drinks arrive and Quinn takes his up immediately, finishing half in a single swallow. He accepts the water the waiter leaves for them gratefully and sucks that down next, hoping the dizziness gets worse so he can claim he’s unwell and they can go home. They can just go -

“You wear a band on your finger,” Edward points out, and any color that had managed its way to Quinlan’s cheeks fades again. He looks green. He feels worse. “Widowed?”

“No,” James smiles, squeezing Q’s hand in reassurance, even though he knows this will hardly go over well. Like ripping off a plaster, he supposes. A short sharp shock and relief after. “No, I am happily married.”

Both of Quinn’s parents stiffen in their seats, uncomfortable but far too tactful to suggest this is an inappropriate arrangement. Q looks like he’s about to cry or throw up or pass out or perhaps all three at once. James continues. “Your son wears the band I gave him,” he says, “but he tends to fiddle when he’s nervous, it’s possible you just didn’t see his.”

Quinn releases the grip he’s got on his ring and the finger attached to it as if scalded, caught mid-fiddle. Beyond that movement, there’s no other, not even a breath, as he looks between his parents, watching him in surprise. Of course, to very few people would it seem as such - they are absolutely reserved, as motionless in their features as Quinn in his own - but he knows the subtleties of their expressions well enough to know that James has just brought the quiet banter to a bloody halt.

“I was going to tell you,” he finally whispers, and that breath is enough to break the watershed.

“Quinlan,” his mother exclaims, so softly her voice is hardly above Q’s whispered apology.

“You’re married?” Edward asks.

“I am,” he says, then shakes his head quickly. “We are, I mean. We - it was very sudden.”

“How sudden could it possibly be? The drive over?”

“No, but it’s only been - it’s just been a couple of months -”

They needn’t say anything for Quinn to slump down in his seat, relieved at least to have it done. He turns a dour gaze to James but it hardly holds, softening as soon as he sees James’ amusement rather than hurt, his support rather than chastisement.

“He surprised me,” Quinn says gently. “At work, no less, with a ring and everything. It was wonderful, and after years together already, we didn’t want to wait a moment more. He’d already posted notice to the Register’s Office, so we just… went,” he laughs, hiding the sound demurely behind his hand. It fades and he glances back towards his parents, still a little stricken, but in a wholly different way. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

The table is quiet again, but this time at least the tension fades from them, and with every passing breath, Quinn sits more and more comfortably in his seat. After a moment he laughs again, and his father gives him a look. This look James knows well enough himself, something of a fond reproach.

“Were you scared we would devour him?”

“Bombard him with interrogations,” Quinlan amends.

“Oh, that will come,” Amelia assures him, and both Quinn and James laugh, relieved. Their appetizers come next, and they settle, all content to take this distraction for what it is. Q presses his leg against James’ beneath the table.

The conversation flows a little easier, then, though hardly enough to wash away the topic that for now remains politely unmentioned. Quinn's parents talk about their careers before retirement - he, a solicitor, and she, a school teacher after Quinn left for Oxford. James asks more questions than he answers, pleased to learn more about them, to watch their mannerisms that so clearly reflect in their son. The way Amelia wrinkles her nose when she laughs; the way his father reaches to touch hair no longer there. They are warm, in their own distant and very English way. Quinn is very deeply loved by both.

James envies him a little, and realizes that perhaps he needn't. Aren't they all family now?

"You must come over and visit," Edward says.

"To meet the cats," Amelia interjects.

"Quinlan never told me you enjoy cars. I've a Jensen CV8, you know. 1965. A beauty."

"And so I see where Quinn gets his interest in them," James says, amused when his father-in-law laughs.

"Quinn? Cars?" He says - teasing, but not cruelly. "He's a clever enough boy but I'd be surprised if he could find the gas cap. Always too busy with his computers, that one."

“He’s rather a fan of my Aston,” James points out, and Quinn presses a hand to his face as Edward and James begin a long and arduous conversation about cars and companies, makes and models. He turns to his meal instead, and is entirely unsurprised when he’s caught by his mother to fill the silence.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell us, Quinn,” she chastens him, not unkindly. “Really, what could your father and I have done beyond gaped and then congratulated you?”

“It’s hardly proper to gape,” Quinn points out, but he’s smiling, and Amelia smiles back. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I intended to tell you within the week, once it all sunk in for me as well, but James and I grew busy with work. He left the company, we moved everything to the house and left just the basics in the London flat,” Quinn shrugs.

“He is very fond of you,” Amelia says. “Very fond. I think if I knew nothing else that would be enough. My son is no fool, you would never let yourself be with someone who didn’t appreciate you.”

Quinn smiles a little more, turning his fingers against his cheek to cool the blush away. “I had the particular privilege of growing up amidst those who always held me in highest esteem,” he says. “I could hardly help expecting the same of others.”

“And does he?” She asks. Quinn watches her, and after a moment, laughs softly.

“Yes,” he grins, resting his hand across his mouth to contain his pleasure, too accustomed to his parents’ behavioral discretion and James’ disregard for propriety, both, to find his balance. “The very highest.”

She allows herself to settle a little as well, reaching to take Quinn’s hand and appraise the simple band. “He’s very handsome,” she murmurs, pleasingly conspiratorial now that tension and wine alike have settled them all. “But he seems like the sort to know that.”

“Oh,” Quinn laughs again. “Oh yes.”

“Little older than I’d have expected.”

Quinn makes a little sound, not in disagreement, but in scarcely contained delight when this finally tugs James’ attention their way.

Quinn slips his hand from his mother’s and turns the ring with his thumb as he presses his knuckles to his lips to hide his grin. James merely raises an eyebrow before turning a warm smile to Amelia.

“Your husband is a delight,” he proclaims, and she hums, knowing.

“He is fairly certain he is,” she says, and Edward returns to his meal to avoid an inevitable fond argument. Beneath the table, Q hooks his foot with James’ and enjoys that little contact that they’re allowed. He wonders at his own panic earlier, at his own fear of not wanting to tell his parents. In truth, what had he worried over? It’s ridiculous now to think of it. They had accepted his orientation many years ago, with quiet thoughtfulness and deep consideration. How would this have been different?

“We shall have to have the two of you by over the summer months,” Amelia adds after a while, as their plates are gathered and a dessert menu brought for them to look at. “The garden will be lovely, then, we can have a nice meal out there together.”

“I, for one, would be delighted,” James declares, to Quinn’s delight. Quinn just smiles and bites his lip and shrugs.

“I suppose we shall have to.”

“Oh, don’t sound so put-upon, dear,” Amelia chastens him. “If not summer then autumn, if not autumn then winter, you know that you will have to come by to model the jumpers I knit for you.”

“He wears them all the time,” James tells her. “The one with the little deer, especially.”

“You’ll have to make one for James next time,” Quinn adds, brightly.

Amelia sits a little taller, pleased well beyond her usual reserve. “I would be delighted,” she says. “We can all wear them, and take photographs together. But summer first,” she adds. “You’ve not gotten off the hook so easily, Quinlan. Now that you’ve stopped fidgeting so much that you were near to crawling out of your skin, and everything’s out in the open, I hope it means you’ll come visit more.”

“As work allows,” Quinn says, grimacing as he’s gently kicked beneath the table by James. His smile recovers quickly. “Yes,” he says instead. “Absolutely, we will.”

“All the Holts together,” Amelia sighs. “How lovely.”

James and Quinn exchange a look, and this time James yields the revelation to Quinn. He insists on it, in fact, silently, with little more than a lifted brow.

“Actually,” Quinn says, “Bond, now.”

“You took his name,” Edward asks, motioning between the two. “Not the other way around.” There’s another question perched just on his lips, an entirely inappropriate one for dinner conversation. It’s one to which he must decide he’d rather not have an answer, let alone to breach etiquette in asking. The silence hangs for a moment, until he simply smiles and nods.

“Very good,” he says, and that’s all there is to be said about that.

They share desserts between themselves, each ordering something different, and nobody finishing any. James picks up the bill and after a brief and extraordinarily polite debate with the elder Holt - as stubborn as his son - it’s decided that this should suffice as genial apology for not having told them sooner. Nobody minds.

Quinn stands with his father as they wait for their cars to be brought around, trying not to notice as James and Amelia exchange phone numbers - “You know how dreadful Quinlan is about answering his” - to make future plans.

“Well done,” his father says, drawing Quinn’s attention back. He nods in thanks, and they share a brief smile.

That’s it. That’s all it is, and it means everything to Quinn.


End file.
